


the disorder of your veins

by like_theletter



Series: MCYT [5]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Crying, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Mental Health Issues, Platonic Cuddling, not sure on that one but tagging it just in case, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28366884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter
Summary: To Tommy’s extreme surprise, words bubble up on his tongue. “I’m fucking stupid.” His voice is rough, crackling like a walkie-talkie with a bad connection.Wilbur doesn’t miss a beat, hands continuing to rhythmically and meticulously comb the tangles out of his hair. “Why?"“I thought…” The blue wall swims in his vision for a beat before Tommy realizes his eyes are filling with tears. “I thought today would be different.”(Tommy's not doing well. His family takes care of him.)
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: MCYT [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077845
Comments: 19
Kudos: 877
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	the disorder of your veins

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Once and Future King by T.H. White.
> 
> good afternoon i have like five minutes to post this before i have to leave so i am SPEEDRUNNING these notes okay okay here we go
> 
> this is titled in my docs as "officer i've never projected in my life"
> 
> if you relate to this just know that you are not alone!!! so many ppl care about you and so many others feel the same way you do. it's very common for people with mental illnesses to notice symptoms worsening with the seasons changing. you're not broken and you deserve to be happy so pls be kind to yourself
> 
> also i meant to post this on christmas but Brain got in the way so here it is two days late it's NOT irrelevant SHUT UP
> 
> okay pls enjoy

“Are we saving this wrapping paper?” Wilbur asks Phil, holding up a crumpled sheet of red and white. Techno pauses from where he holds a wad of the stuff above the trash can, clearly not having thought of that. 

Phil makes a face. “Uh, what you can, I guess. We all know this one—” he sets a hand on Tommy’s head, “—tears into presents like a feral animal.”

Tommy knows what they’re expecting from him: a loud defense, probably with a liberal amount of swear words, sparking one of the witty back-and-forths characteristic of their family. He knows how the conversation is supposed to go. 

But as he opens his mouth to respond, Tommy finds that nothing comes. Nothing. He can’t think of anything— no, he can’t even try. His brain feels too empty and too full at the same time and the usual spark of excitement he feels at their banter is conspicuously absent.

Contrary to popular belief, Tommy’s not stupid. He knows he’s depressed. He was there when the doctor diagnosed him, when his therapist described the symptoms. He’s very much in the loop, thank you.

But somehow— for some reason— Tommy thought today would be different. 

It’s fucking Christmas. 

He’s been excited for it all month; last Christmas he was keyed up and out of it the entire time, still being shuffled around foster homes, spending most days in and out of his social worker’s office with a scowl firmly etched on his face, trembling from the cold. This was his first chance to have a _real_ Christmas, all Hallmark and shit. He was so ready for it.

And this morning, Tommy was _excited._ Like actually, genuinely, bright-eyed excited, in a way he hasn’t felt for a couple months now. 

It didn’t last long. 

So Tommy just shuts his useless mouth and huffs a half-hearted laugh, and after a hesitant pause, Wilbur picks up the conversational slack with an anecdote about ice skating. Tommy stares at the wrapping paper in his hands and folds it mindlessly, once, twice, three times, creasing the edge with his fingernail. He stands wordlessly to slot it in the wrapping paper box, and Phil gives him a smile just this side of concerned. 

Dream, George, Sapnap, and Drista are coming for lunch in a few hours, Tommy remembers as he sits and grabs a new piece of paper. Though he wouldn’t admit it at gunpoint, he loves hanging out with them, Drista especially. There’s a reason he shuffles his way two doors down to their apartment whenever he can’t sleep. 

But as he imagines them coming, imagines the noise and the laughter and energetic conversation, imagines having to smile and help set out food and look like he doesn’t want to sink through the floor never to be seen again, Tommy feels nothing but a sickly sort of dread. 

Maybe he can fake sick. After all, the phrase _I don’t feel good_ isn’t exactly a lie. He can curl up in his bed facing the wall and there will be no one he has to pretend to be _himself_ to.

It feels like there’s some substance painted on the inside of his ribs, something sticky and empty and awful, something with a physical weight that drags him down. It’s getting heavier by the second. Tommy hates it. 

Techno nudges him. Tommy looks up, hands still clutching another piece of wrapping paper. It seems like everything else has been cleaned up, and Tommy hears Phil and Wilbur in the kitchen already, chatting. Techno raises his eyebrows in a silent question. _You good?_

Tommy nods too slowly to be considered normal. “Yeah, I’m— Yeah,” he hears himself say. 

Techno looks incredibly disbelieving, but he lets it slide, offering a hand to help Tommy up and taking the wrapping paper from him with more gentleness than Tommy would expect. Techno lightly shoves him towards the kitchen, heading towards the wrapping paper box.

Tommy takes a few unsteady steps. The floor creaks under him. The kitchen is just a few feet away, but Tommy turns sharply instead, feeling distinctly not in control of his body, heading down the hallway to his room. 

He has a few hours before they get there. Surely, surely he’ll feel better by then. Surely his fucked-up brain won’t do this to him on _Christmas_. 

Tommy curls up on his bed, movements slow and trembling. He pulls a heated blanket over himself and clicks it on. He doubts it’ll make him feel warmer.

The fucked-up thing is that he doesn’t even have the heart to tell himself he’ll be fine.

-

There are a few gentle knocks at the door. Tommy tries to summon the energy for a _go away_ or a _come in,_ but finds the words get stuck in his throat, eyes still tracing the patch of light blue wall he can see. There’s a nick in the paint near his bed frame, and smears of black around where his whiteboard used to be in the first few months of his staying here. He closes his eyes.

“Tommy?” It’s muffled through the door, but it’s definitely Wilbur, sounding soft like he does when he’s worried. “Tommy, I’m coming in.”

The door creaks and Tommy hears a couple cautious steps into the doorway. He stares at his fingers, willing them to move, or twitch, or something, something to let him know he’s still alive and hasn’t faded away into nothing. 

“Dream and them are going to be by in a few,” Wilbur is saying, still sounding gentle. “If you wanted to come help with lunch.” 

Words won’t come. It’s all Tommy can do to keep breathing. Even that is tedious. 

Wilbur sighs, and Tommy hears the floor creaking. A weight settles next to him on the bed, and Tommy catches a flash of brown hair and red pajamas out of the corner of his eye. A tentative hand settles on his leg. “Toms. Can you look at me?”

With herculean effort, Tommy turns his head to look. Wilbur’s expression is gentle and open, not pitying, hair curling in front of his eyes the way it always does in the mornings. “What’s wrong?”

Tommy opens his mouth, but the words still won’t come. He doesn’t know what he would say, how he’d explain it. The weight on his chest is nearing unbearable. It’s so goddamn stupid, anyway, so he just lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug and closes his eyes, vaguely disgusted with himself.

The weight off the bed lifts— Wilbur’s gotten up. Good. Tommy tries to swallow the sour taste in his mouth. It’s good that he’s leaving. It makes sense. Tommy can’t even fucking talk to him, can’t even say what’s wrong. How is Wilbur supposed to help?

Tommy jolts at the feeling of a hand on his head. He looks wide-eyed at Wilbur, who hasn’t left, who’s standing on the other side of his bed. “Up,” says Wilbur, lifting his head. 

Tommy complies, and Wilbur sits cross-legged on the bed, settling Tommy’s head in his lap and carding a gentle hand through his greasy hair. 

“We don’t have to talk.” Wilbur scratches lightly at his scalp. Tommy’s eyes sting at the contact. “But if you feel like it, I’m happy to listen.”

To Tommy’s extreme surprise, words bubble up on his tongue. “I’m fucking stupid.” His voice is rough, crackling like a walkie-talkie with a bad connection.

Wilbur doesn’t miss a beat, hands continuing to rhythmically and meticulously comb the tangles out of his hair. “Why?”

“I thought…” The blue wall swims in his vision for a beat before Tommy realizes his eyes are filling with tears. “I thought today would be different.”

It’s then that Wilbur’s hand pauses, before resuming its ministrations, gentler. Tommy can picture the worried furrow of Wilbur’s brow, the way his lip curls when he’s sympathetic. Tommy can hear it in his voice when he says, “Different?”

Tommy swallows. A tear slides down his temple. “I was… I was happy earlier, like, actually happy. And now…” He takes a sharp breath, bordering on a sob. “It’s so fucking— It’s stupid, why would today be any different, but it’s just— I don’t know, it’s _Christmas,_ I thought—”

Wilbur makes a wounded sound and tugs Tommy closer. A sob wrenches itself from Tommy’s throat and suddenly he’s choking on tears, breath hitching and heart pinwheeling in his chest. He barely hears Wilbur’s “Oh, _Tommy_ ,” before he’s being pulled upward, his arms looped around Wilbur’s shoulders, his face buried in Wilbur’s neck. One of Wilbur’s arms encircles his waist and the other continues scratching his scalp on the back of his head, and Tommy shudders at the contact, crying harder.

Distantly, Tommy hears Wilbur murmuring reassurances, but his world has narrowed to his brother’s shoulder and the tears streaming down his face and the awful, awful feeling in his chest that never seems to go away these days.

Wilbur starts humming.

Tommy’s breath stutters momentarily. He’s forced to regulate his sobbing in order to hear it, which calms the distressed rabbiting of his heart a bit. It’s Chirp, from Minecraft. 

Tommy takes a shuddering breath and leans back, wiping his eyes. Wilbur reaches for his hands, still humming quietly, and threads their fingers together. “You don’t have to, but do you want to come sit while we make lunch? You won’t have to talk or anything. We just… miss you.”

Tommy blows out a breath and leans back onto Wilbur’s shoulder, burying his face in his sweater. It’s soft, and slightly damp from where his tears soaked into it before. Wilbur winds a hand around his waist and pulls him closer, the other rubbing his back. 

Despite the instinct that's screaming for him to stay huddled in his bed alone, it doesn’t sound completely miserable. He could curl up in one of the cushy chairs at the dining room table with his chin in his hand, watching the chaos unfold. Getting up sounds impossible right now, but it’s Wilbur— Wilbur would help him. Before Tommy knows it, he’s nodding.

Tommy leans back. Wilbur looks like he’s holding back a full-fledged smile, and Tommy huffs a tiny laugh. Wilbur’s smile widens. 

“You ready?” he asks, standing up off the bed and holding out a hand. 

Tommy takes it. 

_Maybe things will be okay,_ he thinks when even Techno lights up upon seeing him and Phil and Wilbur bicker over the right way to roll out cookie dough and Wilbur smacks Techno with a rolling pin and runs away cackling. He sits at the table and summons the energy for a few quips here and there. Everyone glows in relief when he does. 

_Maybe I'll be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment of what you liked (or what you didn't) and thanks so much for reading!
> 
> for the love of god i promise i have a sickfic coming soon so be excited for that 
> 
> OKAY I HAVE TO GO NOW . ICE SKATING TIME . JOIN THE WRITER'S BLOCK DISCORD https://discord.gg/RH3KGnaU


End file.
